i woke up and my phone was already in my hand. it was 4:33 am.
i don't remember picking it up.
there's a kind of forgetting that doesn't feel like forgetting. i finish dinner and can't remember what it tasted like. i drive home and don't remember a single turn. someone asks how i'm doing and the answer comes out before i've checked.
it has a name. autopilot.
not the dramatic kind. the quiet kind. it's not a disease, it's the default — the working condition of being alive in 2026. the device i use most was built — by people who get paid by the hour i give them — to take my attention before i notice i'm giving it.
i didn't make this hoodie because i was good at being present. i made it because i kept drifting and i needed a shorter way back. there's a difference. most brands i see sell the first one. i'm writing the version that keeps not arriving and keeps trying anyway.